Other Broken Things (11 page)

I'm at Starbucks
at the butt crack of dawn on the Sunday morning after Christmas with a Venti double mocha and Kathy in front of me with a blank notebook and the
Big Book
.

“So I assume you understand what the Fourth Step is, even if last time you only half-assed it,” she says.

“Excuse me. I fully assed it.”

She snorts. “No. You didn't. Because we wouldn't be here if you did. Now, mostly the moral inventory is about resentment, regret, booze, and sex.”

“What?” I sputter.

She shrugs. “Well, that's pretty much what it is. You make a list of all the things you resent right now and figure out why that's your problem, and not the problem of the people you resent. You make a list of all the things you regret, now and in the past, then figure out why that's also your problem. Then you make a list of how you dealt with these resentments and regrets with alcohol or sex or both.”

“I don't remember them doing it like this in rehab.”

Kathy shakes her head. “That's because rehab is meant to dry you out, so you can start to do the real work.”

“That sex thing seems sketchy. This isn't Sex Addicts Anonymous.”

Kathy flips open the
Big Book
and faces it toward me. “Read this section on the Fourth Step. The whole last bit is all about sexual relationships. Bill W. knew what was what.”

If I'm being totally honest, I don't want to get into this with Kathy. Not just because of my less-than-pure thoughts about Joe, but because I'm not sure I want this crusty lady diving through my notes about my sex life. I've worked too damn hard to shut all that down.

“How do you even know if sex was a problem for me?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Sex is a problem for all of us. And you probably more than most. Look at the way you chew gum or smoke cigarettes.” She waves to the wrappers of the gum that I've already chewed through since we've been here. “Tell me about your last boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Tell me that sex and alcohol weren't all wrapped up together in how that ended—probably how it started too.”

I take a sip of coffee. “His name is Brent. And yeah, I guess those were both involved.”

“And does he fall into the category of resentment or regret?”

“Don't know. Both, I guess. I resent that I got sent to rehab because I was dropping his wasted ass off.”

She scribbles something in the notebook. “And the regret?”

I shrug. I have a world of regret when it comes to Brent but there's no way I'm getting into that with Kathy. “I don't know. I guess I feel bad because I sort of used him. For booze, for someone to party with, whatever.”

She nods and scribbles more, then passes the notebook to me. “See? Columns: Regret, Resent, Reason. Now you need to fill in the rest of the list, and include every grudge you're holding on to. Even the ones from a long time ago. Your parents. Your psychiatrist. Whatever. Get them all out. Then we'll meet and talk about it. You'll tell me your story about how you got here and include all the things on the list, and we'll smoke a bunch of cigarettes and then it'll be done.”

When I did this in rehab, I had two things I talked about: my parents and school. I didn't mention friends or anything from the past. I didn't mention boxing or Jerry or the gym. I didn't mention the accident or Brent. I didn't want to get into all of that. Steps Four and Five in rehab took two fifty-minute therapy sessions. And I even had some time to kill afterward so we talked about holiday plans.

“You want this for next week?” I say, and then take another piece of gum and shove it into my mouth. The cinnamon flavor goes really well with the mocha.

Kathy snorts. “You won't be able to have a full list by next week, but it'll be a place to start.”

*  *  *

I enter my house after the pancake breakfast to a full-on battle. Dad is screaming at Mom to take down all the holiday decorations already and she's bellowing back that it isn't even New Year's yet and she should be allowed to keep them up until then.

I try to slip up to my room, but Dad hears me drop my keys on the table in the front hall. He storms out and stands before me with his hands on his hips.

“You need to start coming to church with us on Sundays.”

I blink. “What?”

“We look like we're not a functional family and with all the rumors flying around about your stint in rehab, we need to shore up and have a united front.”

I hold my hands up. “What the hell does that mean? Are you listening to yourself? Shore up? Who says shit like that?”

Mom has trailed in behind him and I can tell right away she's been crying.

“Watch your tone, young lady. It's a privilege to be living under my roof, not a right. And I can have you out on your fanny before you even blink.”

My mouth drops open. “I . . . I can't go to church. I meet with my sponsor on Sunday mornings and then do my community service.”

Dad glares at me, then turns on Mom. “Then none of us go until she can. Until her community service is over. I have more important things to do and I don't want to be fodder for the gossips.”

“I want to go to church,” Mom says softly.

He shakes his head. “Then you'll go alone. And the decorations come down today. We're done discussing this.”

He slams his way upstairs and Mom looks more broken than I've ever seen her. I want to reach out, but I can't imagine she'd want that from me. So instead I say, “Do you need help? I can do the lights outside and the inflatable decorations.”

She shakes her head. “I've got it. You've been up since five, why don't you take a nap?”

I make my way upstairs and hear her sniffling as she starts to take the ornaments off the tree, carefully wrapping each in tissue paper.

After five minutes of listening to her, I go to my dresser and grab my workout gear. I pull on my thermals and call to Mom that I'm going for a run before I slam the door and take off.

*  *  *

Running feels fucking terrible. Like I've been living inside an iron lung. But I don't care; I pick up the pace and try not to kill myself on the ice. I do a series of jabs, hooks, and uppercuts when I stop in a park to catch my breath. Then I take off in a sprint again. I used to run miles when I was boxing. I could jump rope for nearly an hour. Mom and Dad didn't even really know. Not until they saw one of my fights. Then it was all concerned looks and discussions about other sports I might be interested in for a while. It wasn't long before it reached ultimatum level.

By the time I get home I'm drenched with sweat and frozen all at the same time. I feel like I've been rolling in the snow. Mom looks at me and shakes her head.

“It would be easier if you didn't smoke so much,” she says.

I point to the mountains of decorations she still has to take down in the house. “It would be easier if you didn't decorate so much.”

Her bottom lip trembles and she turns away from me. God, I suck as a daughter.

I want to de-stress. I need to. When I get to my room I grab my phone and thumb through my texts to find Brent. But Joe's name is there and on impulse more than anything else, I decide to text him.

I need out or I need to shut off.

My phone rings a second later.

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

“What's going on?” I can hear music in the background and figure he must be in his truck.

“I don't want to talk about it. I'm not even sure why I texted you.”

He lets out a breath. “You texted because you want to drink and you want to not drink and you're hoping I'll help you into a more solid place with that.”

I laugh. “Are you offering to take me on a bender?”

“If you're going to drink, I'd prefer you were with me, yes. But I'd like a chance to talk to you about why it isn't a good idea, and I need you to tell me why you think it is.”

His voice is calm, but my edginess is still slamming into me from all sides. My mom's tears, my dad's concerns about us being a functional family, the way my brain has stopped going blank and seems to actually want me to figure some shit out.

“What's your address?” Joe asks.

“It's 1121 Elmwood. Why?”

“In case you want me to come over.”

I'm not sure what to say to this. Or what my parents would think. Asking seems really fucking hard in this moment, but it
is
what I want. The pause is too long between us and I wonder if he's hung up, but knowing Joe, he's waiting on me.

“I'm tired,” I start. “I went for a run and I'm tired. But not just from the run. From everything.”

“Yeah. You know what they say in AA: Don't HALT. Never be hungry, angry, lonely, or tired.”

I laugh a little. “So all four is . . . ?”

“Not great. Do you want me to come over? I can help with two of them. Maybe all four if you don't have to be anywhere this afternoon.”

“Can you help with the bender?”

“How about this? How about I come pick you up and talk to you and if you still want to drink after an hour, I'll take you to get something to drink?”

I snort. “Enabler.”

He laughs. “You haven't heard my pitch yet.”

I lie back in my bed and take a deep breath. “There might be more Tylenol around here somewhere. That could help with the tired thing.”

“I won't come if you don't want me to, but I'd like to.”

I let out a long sigh. “You can come.”

There's a pause and I guess I should hang up, but I don't. And neither does he. All that's on the line is our breaths intermingling and the tension of everything I'm not saying crackling between us.

He clears his throat and says, “Have you ever had the biscuits at Red Lobster? If you think Popeyes is good, you have to try those Cheddar Bay Biscuits at Red Lobster. Amazing.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I don't know,” he says. “I'm just talking. Keeping you on the line a little longer so you don't go fishing around for Tylenol with codeine. Hoping that you'll maybe tell me what's going on.”

“Don't feel like it,” I say, and this is the truth. My body is starting to calm and it'll get worked up again if I talk about Mom and Dad and the fight and putting on a united front as a family.

“So then I guess I'll just have to keep talking about biscuits. . . .”

“I need a shower.”

“Are you going to take the Tylenol?”

I pause for a second. “No.”

“Okay, take your shower. I'll be there soon.”

I put the water on as hot as I can get it and let my muscles ease. I used to love showers after a workout. My body is so different now than it was even a year ago. Jesus. Everything slipped away so fast.

I dry off and tug on a big cashmere sweater and Genetic jeans. I eye the medicine cabinet, knowing the Tylenol isn't there anymore, but wondering what else is. Before I can even check, Joe calls.

“I'm in your driveway.”

Mom says nothing
to me when I tell her I'm going out with Joe. She's too wrecked. I shouldn't have said anything about her decorating less. It appears to be the only thing she has control over, which is pretty fucking sad and makes me feel even worse. I should stay with her, but I can't. Not if I want even the slimmest chance of staying sober. I want to explain all this, but it's way too much. So I give her an awkward hug and bolt out the door.

I stand outside the passenger door and Joe rolls down the window.

“Are you waiting for me to open it for you?”

I shake my head. “Hardly. But I do want a guarantee that you'll get me booze if your pitch doesn't work. Promise?”

He narrows his eyes. “Promise you'll listen and have a conversation with me for at least an hour first?”

“Yes,” I huff.

“Okay, then yes, I promise. AA pinkie swear or whatever.”

I slip into his truck and buckle up. “AA has a pinkie swear?”

“Uh, no. But you can trust me.”

I look at my house as he backs out of the driveway. Mom moves robotically around the living room, unwinding lights from the tree.

“Shouldn't you be helping?” Joe says.

“Yeah. That's part of the reason we're going on a bender. Not that you'll be joining me. You're strictly my designated driver.”

He turns at the end of my street and steers his truck toward the highway. “You want to get drunk because your mom is taking the lights off the tree?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

He waits for me to fill in the rest, but I don't feel up to it. I wait to see what he's going to say next, but he doesn't say anything.

“You now have fifty-four minutes. I thought you were going to give me your pitch.”

He rakes his hand through his hair and my gaze catches on the weird symbol tattoos. I wonder if they say “KILL” in Chinese or something. “I thought I'd have a little bit more to work with,” he says.

“What do those symbols mean? Did you get them on the
KILL
night too?”

He shakes his head and pulls onto the highway ramp. “Nah. I got them after. They're Japanese letters.”

“What do they spell?”

“Forgiveness,” he says.

The air in his pickup grows stifling and I crack my window and pull out a cigarette. “I assume I can smoke.”

“Yep.”

I go through two of them before either of us says anything. The buzz hits me right away. It must be from the running. Like I cleaned my lungs out enough to start fresh with more death sticks.

Finally, when I can't take the quiet any longer, I say, “Mom is a holiday Nazi. She starts busting out her Christmas sweaters in early November. She has so many ornaments not even our huge tree could hold them all. She loves Christmas. And Dad wanted her to take everything down. They were fighting about it when I got home. Then he told me I needed to go to church with them on Sunday mornings so we'd seem to be more like a functional family.”